


natural light

by myrkks



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 13:32:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13295913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrkks/pseuds/myrkks
Summary: it isn’t meaningless, but it may as well be, and they both know it; but Soul’s done telling himself over and over that this isn't love





	natural light

Soul is young, but he’s good at playing the piano.  
  
Or he thinks he is, anyway; it feels to him like there must be something meaningful in the weight of his fingertips against the keys, the instinctive pull of his body to the base.  When he plays, time passes slower, and quicker; he makes mistakes, and then he gets better, practices more, and he makes less and less mistakes.  Ever since he can remember, he’d thought, _here it is.  Here is something I’m good at._  
  
His mother places the sheets of paper in front of him carefully, all edges aligned.  She takes a few steps back, waits.  Steps forward again, to place a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“You may begin,” she tells him.  
  
It’s an order as much as an allowance, and Soul’s fingers begin skimming over the keys immediately.  There is something of a spark in his eye, a sharp pull to the tilt of his mouth; something like a laugh bubbles up in his belly and spreads through his hands, and he feels the jumpiness emanate out of him as his feet jitter.  The feeling is almost too much; he could focus on the sheet music, probably, if he really wanted to, but before he can think twice about it, his eyes jerk away from the pages, fingers jerk away from his orders, and his attention jerks away from his mother, a foot behind him, a heavy presence in a small room.  
  
She waits, to her credit, stands there with her hands behind her back and her expression unreadable until Soul’s song teeters to a close.  Soul visibly hesitates, and when he turns to face her, his posture is tense but his face is open.  His mother sighs when she takes a step forward, and Soul stiffens as she raises a hand to press against his cheek.  
  
“I guess I shouldn’t have expected this much from you,” she says, her eyes sad and voice kind, and he recognizes this; it’s the same placating, defeated tone she uses with his father.  Her thumb rubs soft circles on his cheek, and he feels so detached from her, so far away.  She smiles at him, elegant and closed off, and whispers, like a secret, “Sometimes, you play like you have a little demon in you.  My little demon boy.”  
  
It will come to him later that she means it with affection, but in that moment, eyes wide and fingers splayed on the keys, it strikes him as immensely, terribly cruel.  He feels a tremor of _something_ rattle down his spine, and his hands twitch; this isn't right, is it?  He isn't doing this right.  He’s supposed to be good at this, but he can’t do this right.  
  
His mother presses a cold hand to his shoulder, and Soul shivers in spite of the layers between them.  He stares steadfast at his hands in his lap, the prickle of tears in the corner of his eyes, and listens to the harsh clack of heels on tile, next to him, then far, then gone.  A feeling he doesn't recognize rises in his chest, up his throat, and something resonates the thought in him: that this is not love.  
  
—  
  
The first time he wakes up with his sheets torn to shreds, covered in sweat, heartbeat pulsing in the blade his arm’s turned into, he doesn't tell anyone.  The second time, he tells his brother.  
  
There is distance in the way Wes sits, stiff, back too straight, on the foot of his bed; there’s distance in his hands, the way they twitch toward Soul’s arm, then drift back down.  There’s distance in his eyes, grey, _normal_ , in the downward twitch Soul can see at the corner of his mouth, just before he yanks it into a smile.  
  
A pregnant pause, then Wes breathes, “Amazing.  Incredible.  I don’t know what to say,” and Soul’s heart drops, just a little.  Every part of him wants so desperately to be proud of this, to be happy for this thing that separates him so completely from his family, but he’s young, nervous, and really, he doesn't know what to say, either.  
  
Another pause, and this time Soul can feel the distance in himself, too: his eyes downcast, shoulders hunched, fingers curled tight around the area where his arm morphs into steel.  He scratches short fingernails down the blade to make sure he can still feel it, that he hasn't lost something to all of this, and thinks about his mother, voice kind, closed, and disappointed.    
  
Wes clears his throat.  “What are you going to tell Mother and Father?” he asks, tone soft, and Soul looks up long enough to see his brother’s smile gone, brow furrowed, eyes focused on the blade of his brother’s arm.  “Or Grandmother?”  
  
Soul swallows and jolts his gaze back down before Wes can make eye contact with him.  “I don’t know,” he answers, and instantly regrets how honest and young his voice sounds.  He jerks his fingers away from his arm and shrugs his shoulders in a forced casual gesture.  “The truth, I guess.”  
  
He wishes he could keep the blood from rushing to his face, the resentment from burning its way up his throat, the instantaneous and momentary hate from curling his fingers to claws, when Wes only nods, smiles that closed-off smile, and says, “That would probably be best.”  
  
—  
  
The room is cold and darkly lit, afternoon sun sneaking in through gaps under the black-out curtains that line the walls.  Soul hadn’t expected the room when he’d come here, hadn’t expected to find anywhere so still in the bustle of his new school, his new home.  The whole of Death City is bursting with people, and all day, carted around by a tour group and his older brother, Soul had felt the raw itch of anxiety under his skin, the desperate clawing at the base of his throat that left his voice cracked and told him he terribly needed some time alone.  
  
His brother had left for the airport a few hours ago and Soul had set off to explore, not yet willing to put in the time to unpack his things at his new apartment.  There’s this nervous energy in him, now; fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeve, Soul takes a small, cautious step into the room, and closes the door behind him.  
  
Mixed feelings follow him as he carefully examines the piano at its center.  There is a part of him, as there always has been, that admires it simply because it is beautiful: tuned, finely polished, and left alone, unused, in the dark.  When he runs his fingertips along the cool wood of the lid, he shivers.  
  
As he sits at the bench, running his palms down his thighs to smooth out his slacks, Soul finds himself wondering if maybe the change he’s been dreaming for isn't coming for him.  Maybe all of life is like this, just this constant rushing and waiting, fulfilling of empty expectations and receiving empty praise, just a circle of monotonous acknowledgment that doesn't mean anything.  Maybe his whole life will play out like this: surrounded by people who don't know him and don't care to, starved of meaningful conversation, relationships, a meaningful _life_.  Maybe this future he’s so certain he’s running toward never existed, and he’s one careless step away from launching himself off the edge.  In the dark, his fingers hesitate against the keys.  
  
A click of a door being opened, and Soul glances up to see the profile of a girl peering through the space she’d just come through, watches as she sighs before closing it behind her.  He stares until her head begins to turn, then jolts his gaze back down before he can make eye contact with her.  
  
He sees the girl startle at the sight of him from the corner of his eye.  “Hello,” she tries, voice cautious, and takes a single step toward him.  
  
Soul clears his throat; the noise is loud, too loud, against the stark silence of the room.  “Hi,” he says.  
  
The girl takes a few more steps forward, until she stands only a few feet from him.  There’s a pause.  “Are you a student here?” she asks.  
  
“Soon,” he answers; he can see the hesitation in her posture, in the distance between the two of them, but there’s curiosity there, too.  He looks up in time to see her tilt her head, green eyes open wide, and he wonders if anyone’s ever wondered about him before.  “I’m starting this year.”  
  
She blinks.  “Oh,” she says, plainly, and extends a gloved hand.  “My name’s Maka,” she offers, “What’s yours?”  
  
Soul stares at her hand for a few seconds, irritation curling tight in his stomach.  Another place, another life, another empty handshake.  “Soul,” he responds, voice curt, and turns again to face the piano.  Soul runs a finger along the keys, shoulders tense, waiting for her to leave, but he doesn't hear the tap of shoes on tile signifying an exit, and when he turns to look, she’s still there, a few steps behind him like a wide-eyed shadow.  He raises an eyebrow at her.  
  
She raises one back.  “Aren’t you going to play?” she asks.  
  
Something like a laugh builds in his throat, and Soul barks it out roughly in her direction.  “Sure,” he grins, taking delight in the way she swallows.  Sure, he’ll play.  
  
It’s more of a bad feeling than good at this point, less of a catharsis and more of a breaking point, and if his heart and fingertips shatter against the keys of the piano, he won’t notice until he stops.  There is something of a spark in his eye, a sharp pull to the tilt of his mouth; some stitch of sickness laces itself in his chest, and a jolt of fever has his hands spilling against notes, melodies, while his feet jitter.  It’s an ocean of too much; he can feel, in a distant sense, the tremor at his shoulders, the stretch of a smile across his face, and wonders what his mother would think if she saw him like this: malicious, out of control, demonic.  
  
Maka waits, to her credit, stands there with her hands behind her back and her expression thoughtful until Soul’s song teeters to a close.  He stalls at the bench, unwilling to face her, but when moments pass without her going anywhere, Soul sighs and slowly turns to her.  
  
She visibly brightens when her gaze meet his, and takes a step forward.  Soul eyes her, cautious.  
  
“Nice to meet you, Soul,” she beams.  “That was incredible, you know.”  
  
Soul blinks at her.  
  
“I mean,” she continues, with a nervous wave of her hand, “I don’t know the first thing about music — never had much of an interest, I guess?  But it sounded so strange and you seemed so into it and — “  She sucks in a breath and extends her hand again.  “And, I guess — Hi, nice to meet you, Soul.  I think we should be partners.”  
  
He swings a leg over the bench to face her better.  There is this brief, horrifying moment where he thinks she's making fun of him, that this is some sort of prank, and in a few seconds some kids with video cameras are going to pop around the corner, like _surprise, idiot!  You thought anyone would want to willingly spend time with you?_ But moments pass, and no one else appears but Maka, eyes still wide and hopeful.  
  
He can already feel a decision tight in his gut, but he holds it back a moment longer.  “Me?” he asks quiet; nervously, his fingers trail along the piano keys.  “This,” he starts, then hesitates.  He wills himself to make eye contact with her for a moment, before his gaze jumps back to the piano.  He inclines his head to it, slightly.  “This is who I am, you know,” he confesses, voice low.  “This is the kind of person I am.”  
  
Maka only blinks at him.  “Yes,” she responds, and her gaze does not waver, and her hand does not shake.  
  
In the dark of the room, he feels his soul reach for her before his body does.  “Partners,” he breathes; the word leaves a strange but not unpleasant taste in his mouth, and he takes her hand.  
  
—  
  
Then Maka moves in with him, and he finds himself stumbling over her imperfections head-first.  She’s stubborn, temperamental, relentless, and nosy; nothing in the apartment is purely his anymore, not when she’s the one unpacking his boxes and making his grocery lists.  He grumbles and steps around her, but he can feel that anxious buzz growing in his chest again, the too-heavy-too-light feeling that nothing’s going to change, that people are going to be making decisions both for him and without him, forever.  
  
And Maka lifts her head up from the sticky note she’s been frantically scribbling food items onto and asks him, “Do you like orange juice with pulp or without?”, and he feels that buzz lower to a hum.  “With,” he replies, startled; his voice, rough with early morning, sounds all wrong to him, but Maka only beams and says, “Me, too.”  
  
They figure it out.  He tells her once, rubbing his achy calves after she manages to drag him into running a mile with her, that he really, truly does _not_ want her to touch the stuff in his room.  He sees the temper he’d been worrying about in her immediate reaction, the way she whips her head around, pigtails swinging, mouth already open with a retort; but he sees, too, the hesitation that follows, hears the click of her teeth as she closes her mouth, feels the tentative push at his soul from her own.  
  
It is the first time he lets her in.  She lingers a moment, pulls back her soul and leans forward her body, and says, “Okay.”  A moment, and she places her hand on his.  “That’s okay.”  
  
It doesn't fix everything; she still barges in to wake him in the mornings when he oversleeps, still investigates anything and everything he leaves in the living room.  And he learns things about her, too: learns that she’s a mover, but not an organizer, after she stuffs all his CDs, messy and out of order, in the cabinet under the DVD player, just so that it’s out of the box.  He learns that she’s a fantastic student, not through raw talent but through determination and application, hours spent combing textbooks and pushing herself harder, harder, harder.  He learns that her hair parts itself naturally on the side, not the middle, and that she can’t bake for the life of her, that she cries when she’s overwhelmed, and that she has this one ticklish spot under her ribs that, if even just brushed, will reduce her to a laughing, jerking mess.  He learns _her_ ; they haven't known each other that long, but Maka is so human, real and tangible in a way he’s never had before, and he has her.  He has her.  
  
Soul’s never had to coexist with someone in close quarters like this before, never really shared more than a name, a polite word, and she drives him crazy with her presence, her strange rules, the compromises they come to.  She has this intense and bizarre drive that Soul’s never had, a blind faith in her path and her ideals; he trails after her, puts his footsteps in hers, and tries not to feel lost.  In her soul or his, he feels it: the longing, the willingness, the desperation to prove _something._  
  
But that’s okay, isn’t it?  Maybe they both have something to prove.  He thinks about Maka, moving in to his place just days after they agree to be partners, and wonders if maybe they both have something to run away from, too.  
  
—  
  
He’s absent-minded, in a way that she isn’t, face in hand, foot jittering, dragging the eraser of his pencil down her sleeve.  They’re in the library, and across the table, Maka glances up from her textbook to scowl at him.  
  
“Soul,” she chides; her voice is harsh but she does not yank away her arm, and Soul jerks out of his trance with a start.  “C’mon, you need to focus.  The test is _tomorrow_.”  
  
Maybe it’s his intense fear of failure or maybe it’s the tight twist of her mouth, expression bordering on a pout, but he feels his heart skip a beat in his chest.  Swallowing his nerves, he reaches in his bag to yank out his textbook, lays it across from hers and imagines they're reading the same lines, the same words.  She smiles at him for just a second, small and soft, before finally pulling her arm away to turn the page.  He turns his, too.  
  
And he tries his best, for her benefit.

—  
  
They grow through missions, going on assignment as frequently as they can manage, snatching up jobs greedily with bright eyes and shaking hands.  They're young, but they build a reputation: a little over-eager, a little reckless, and a lot _good._   Soul feels the instinctive shrink away from the attention, but he does his best to stand tall, stand with Maka, and bare the gossip like badges on his chest.  
  
There’s an intrinsic guilt in the process of absorbing another’s life force, a sense of wondering if maybe this is wrong, bad; but consuming souls is immensely, indescribably satisfying, and despite everything, he lives for the experience.  Souls give him nothing, really, sliding heavy like horse pills down his throat, nothing beyond the achievement, the electric buzz of pleasure in his blood; and he has to question if that’s even the true cause of it at the end of every battle, stealing glances at Maka’s victorious grins and sure steps.  There is harsh grace in the set of her jaw, the light curve at the base of her spine; happiness hums in his bloodstream, spreads all the way into the tips of his fingers, and he has to remind himself, sternly: that this is not love.  
  
Soul has never effortlessly been a good person; it’s always something he’s had to struggle for, to claw and grovel for, to work towards.  He’s never had that easy light he can see shine through Maka every time she smiles, laughs, and he squashes down the part of him that tells him he’s not good enough for her.  It picks at his self esteem, her goodness, because she asked him to be her partner, but she’s the one doing the leg work, picking their missions, coming home covered in blood and bruises while he can only support her and talk to her, a boy trapped in metal, stuck on the sidelines once again.  He tells himself: she can’t be okay with this, right?  This can’t be enough for her.  He can’t be enough for her.  
  
Except that when a fight starts to go sour, Maka turns to him for advice, not grudgingly, but automatically, like he’s her equal, like this is something he can do better than her.  He isn't enough for her, couldn't be enough for her, but when he sees the smear of blood through her glove where one of her blisters must have popped, he thinks that he may have to be.  Tucked into alleyways, behind garbage cans, whispering in the dark, he pretends she can feel his hand on hers, too.  
  
They win.  Maka makes a final swing of his blade and the kishin they’re fighting dissolves into nothing but a soul, a few ribbons of light.  She turns to him and nearly screams when she laughs, “Amazing!  Incredible!”  Soul finds himself grinning at her dopily, heart aching with heavy affection, and he traces the laugh lines at the corners of her eyes with his own when she shouts, “That was incredible, Soul!  I don’t even know what to say!”  
  
_I don’t, either_ , he wants to tell her, but then her arms are around him, tight and grounding against his waist, and he loses his train of thought to the rumble of her laugh, tucked into his neck.  The vibrations tickle and then he’s chuckling, too, and she’s ever so slightly taller than him but he doesn't care in that moment; reaching up, he wraps his arms around her neck.  
  
—  
  
She’s absent-minded, in a way that he isn’t, stance wide, fingers twitching, all intuition and stupid bravery; in her hands, he can practically _feel_ her blood boiling.  They’re on assignment in a narrow alley, backed into a corner, face to face with a kishin, and Soul feels, as he always does, the instinctive kick of fear in his belly, watching its sharp teeth and lolling tongue.  It throws its head to the side and he hears its neck crack with a wince; and then its feet are shifting, long claws scuffing across the pavement, and the monster takes one slow, creaking step forward.  
  
Maka steps forward, too, thoughtless and quick, and Soul sees the reaction in the beast in front of them immediately: rearing back, weight unbalanced, before it lands, harsh and graceful, into a charge.  
  
“Maka,” he hisses, feeling more than seeing her feet shift wide like she’s ready to charge back, and there is that buzz again, rising in him, “ _Dodge._ ”  
  
There is a second of hesitation, where the kishin closes too much ground between them, where Soul thinks, wildly, that this is going to be the time she doesn't listen to him.  But then she’s flying, feet snapping quick off of the lid of a dumpster, and the kishin runs headfirst into the brick behind them.  He feels, in her soul or his, the sharp twinge of satisfaction, tastes the iron-metallic pang of her laugh in his mouth, before the beast is upon them again.  
  
When the battle is over, soul consumed, he scolds her for her twisted ankle but still helps with gentle hands to drag her home.  Her arm is heavy across his neck, breath soft against his cheek; at the door to their apartment, she smiles at him for just a second, small and soft, before pulling away to reach for her keys.  In the dark of the early morning, it feels like a thank you, and a promise: _I’ll try my best, too.  I’ll try my best for you, too._  
  
—  
  
The day Soul gets split open, flesh cut wide from hip to collarbone like an off balance center seam, he’s only aware of it in a abstract, distant sense.  He doesn't hurt so much as he feels: feels the dull pound of his shoulder against tile as he collapses to the ground; feels the blood collect around him, warm and sticky, like honey; feels the sharp, sour panic of his partner as she processes what’s happening, as her soul reaches, desperately, for his.  
  
He isn't conscious enough to hear her but he’s conscious enough to feel her, grasping at his hand, his face, his soul, for just a second.  Just a second of contact, then she’s fading, or maybe he is; in the moments before he passes out, he swears he hears someone laugh.  
  
He wakes with an anxious itch under his skin, a cackle echoing in his ears, and Maka’s hand in his.  His eyes narrow at the harsh infirmary light and his limbs feel heavy, but he wills himself to prop himself up on an elbow so he can look at her.  
  
Maka is asleep at his bedside, head pillowed on her arm; there is a part of him, as there always has been, that wants to admire her simply because she is beautiful, but then his eyes trace the furrow of her brow, the smudge of drool on her sleeve, and his heart aches.  
  
Something feels different; he feels, inexplicably, like something important happened while he was sleeping, to her, or to him, or to them.  A shift in their dynamic is a shift in his life, and the deep sense of _wrong_ won’t go away as he stares at her troubled, sleeping face.  Something has changed, he’s sure of it, and with a nervous flutter of his heart, he wonders: was he not good enough?  Did he not do enough?  Is he setting her back, now, delaying her goals, stuck in this hospital bed as he is?  For the first time in a long time, he feels separate from her, alien; she’s changed, or he has, or they have; he trails his fingers along the bandages on his chest and wonders what he lost without even realizing it, what he did that made her realize that he isn't good enough for her.  
  
Even in her sleep, she knows what he needs; Soul is yanked out of the anxious tangle of his thoughts by a pull at his soul from her own.  He’s let her in so many times by now, the admission should feel natural, but sitting small in his hospital bed, heart beating loud on the monitor next to him, he hesitates.  
  
It’s only a moment before she slips away, and Soul finds himself reaching out for her, pulling her back with something like desperation.  _Don’t go_ , he wants to tell her; but then her body shifts forward, elbow shuffling against his knee, and he feels the warm glow of her soul close to his.  
  
It’s another few minutes before he falls asleep and another few hours before he wakes up again.  Maka’s smile is shaky but her eyes are bright; her hand is still in his, her soul still open, bare.  The harsh lights have been turned off in favor of the afternoon sun, curtains spread wide; it casts her in a warm halo.  With the light in his eyes, Soul takes a moment to breathe.  
  
—  
  
Soul doesn't play piano anymore, does his best not to even think of it, but he still dreams he does, sometimes.  
  
Dreams aren't rare for him anymore, not ever since his subconscious manifested in a three foot tall nuisance.  The little demon spends most nights crooning into his ear to play, come out and play, that it’ll be _fun_ , and most mornings, Soul wakes up more tired than he had been before he’d gone to sleep.  
  
Still, there is something tempting about it, a dark hiss of envy and self loathing that reminds him that he could be good at this, that he _was_ good at this; in the quiet of his dreamscape, he rubs circles into his knuckles with boney fingers and feels that there must be something meaningful in the weight of his fingertips against the keys, the instinctive pull of his body to the base.  
  
Maka asks him about it sometimes, questions casual but voice lilting nervously, hand motions just a little too broad; he loves her, he does, but her tells are so obvious, and his need to hide his inadequacies and jealousies, vicious and ugly and tremendous in their scope, is so much larger than her intrinsic need to look, to see, to tear him apart.  He’d thought, when they’d met, that the hardest thing to deal with as her partner would be her temper, but she softens with time and assurance, melting into friendship and security and years passing with a shocking ease.  And he can’t get used to this deep curiosity in her, this horrible and incomprehensible thirst for knowledge; try as he may, he can’t help but bristle at her academic curiosity, the poking and needling that she can’t not subject him to.  
  
He doesn't blame her, but he’s cautious around her, hides albums under his bed and stops humming when she comes into the room.  It’s unfair, maybe, but he needs it.  In the daylight, head buzzing with insecurities and certainty, he knows that he needs it.  In his dreams, he is less sure.  
  
His demon sits the wrong way on the piano bench to face him better, swings his legs and stares with blank eyes, and Soul stands a safe distance away, his hands in his pockets.  He can’t see its mouth move, but in his ears he feels the shrill ringing of the little ogre’s laugh, high and mocking.  He can’t help but be reminded of a younger him, backwards on the bench, a decision in his gut and a hand in his.  
  
“Evans,” the demon hisses; he feels the tickle of its whisper at the back of his neck, and all the hairs on his arms stand up, “Why don’t you relax for a while, play a little something?”  
  
Soul swallows, nauseous; at his side, his fingers twitch.  Wordlessly, he shakes his head.  
  
The demon cackles, mouth open wide, and for just a moment, Soul thinks he sees too many rows of teeth.  “C’mon, c’mon,” it breathes, shoulders shaking lightly with its chuckle, “It’ll be _fun_.”  
  
He can feel that buzz growing in his head again, feels it in the back of his throat, in the short, anxious jerk of his knee.  “No,” he insists, and instantly regrets the horrible, vulnerable desperation in his tone, “No, that isn't who I am anymore.”  
  
This time, when the demon laughs, the whole room shakes: there’s a clatter of a curtain rod hitting the floor, a screech of furniture sliding across tile, a click of Soul’s dress shoes as he tries to keep from falling.  The laughing gets louder, the shaking gets harder, and his feet slide out from underneath him — but before he can hit the floor, his eyes blink open, heart racing, at home.  
  
—  
  
Maka getting hurt is his own personal failure, and every time she so much as scrapes her knee, he feels the responsibility in his bones.  
  
He can tell it bothers her, his worry, can tell what she’s thinking: that he’s underestimating her, not taking it seriously, by making this about him.  And it _is_ selfish, to make it about him, but it’s what he needs; if it isn't his fault, then he can’t change it, and if he can’t change it, she’ll keep getting hurt.  Soul brushes a hand through his fringe, yanks at the tangles that curl between his fingers, and tells himself over and over that this isn’t out of his control, not yet.  
  
Kneeling on the bathroom floor, Soul runs his hands reverently down her calf to her ankle.  It isn’t swelling yet, but he feels the sprain as if though it were on his own body, and when he reaches down to bandage her, his touch is gentle.  
  
Maka has embarrassed irritation and a bizarre hesitancy coming off of her in waves, and it’s so rare for her to be the hesitant one between the two of them, but Soul’s never felt more in his element than here, knees against hard tile, fingers sliding gently across her skin like a promise.  It’s been months since he’s had a bandage on his own body, but the tense press of the elastic feels warm and familiar against his fingers.  When he finishes, he brushes a chaste kiss against the top of her knee, smile small and secret against her thigh when she jerks.  
  
It isn’t meaningless, but it may as well be, and they both know it.  Soul’s done telling himself over and over that this isn't love, and Maka’s never had any trouble reading him; he helps her to her room with a hand on the small of her back, leaves her at the doorway with a quiet “goodnight”, and they both know he’ll fall asleep thinking about her.  And she’s — curious, or something similar: too cautious, now, for action, too smart to love him, but if she wanted to try him out, satisfy her curiosity and break his heart, he’d let her.  He knows that; they both know that.  
  
Pressing the back of his hand to his lips, Soul lays his head down on his pillow and tells himself that he’s fine with this.  He thinks about the harsh grace in the set of her jaw, the light curve at the base of her spine, and falls asleep, alone, in the dark.  
  
—  
  
Eibon hits both of them hard, and he’s shocked to find her at the end of Envy, white knuckled, breathing heavy, head bowed.  It isn’t like her; it isn't _her_ , and he knows her.  He knows her better than this; it’s been years since they met, and Maka is so human, real and tangible in a way he’s never had before, and he has her.  
  
And then in Sloth, she tells him, repeatedly, that he doesn't have her.  “I’m sorry for always holding you back,” she smiles, brows drawn together, “Leave me behind.”  He stands shock-still, frozen, wants to reach out for her — but she’d been the one who’d dropped his hand right?  She’d let him go.  “I can’t fight together with you anymore,” she continues, head down; at his side, his fingers twitch, and he tells himself: it isn't supposed to go like this.  He’s fine with being used, he knows he’s not enough, but she’s his partner, his best friend, and he doesn't want to be thrown away.  
  
Giriko’s kick is less of a hit than her words, and even as he slides against the wall, dull pain throbbing in his shoulders like a heartbeat, he’s still reeling.  Soul throws his head back, groans quiet and low, and he hears him: “I’m gonna put this chainsaw right through your guts!”  He’s on his feet.  “I wanna hear you scream!”  He’s running towards the two.  “You ready?  Here we go-!” and he’s kicking the fucker right smack in the jaw.  
  
It isn’t the time — they don't _have_ the time for him to check up on her, but he can’t help but turn his head to his partner.  Eyes wide, she rubs at her wrists, and he wonders, absently, if they’ll bruise.  
  
Giriko snaps a laugh, breathy and wild, and Soul turns to face him, heart hammering and thoughts clouded.  It isn’t the time, but he can’t stop thinking about it — “I’m just a burden to you, aren't I, Soul?” — and then Giriko throws his head to the side, and Soul hears his neck crack with a wince.  
  
“What are you?” the man in front of him asks, smile wide, face crazed, “Some kind of prince that swoops in and saves the girl when she’s in a pinch?”  Something in his heart aches.  
  
Maka isn’t ready to fight; he can feel it in his chest like he can feel his own soul.  Her hold around him is light, uncertain, her feet close and unsteady; he isn’t sure if it’s a lack of faith in him or herself, but something is holding her back, and he can feel the both of them losing this fight before it’s even started.  
  
One, two, three hits and he’s phasing back, arm forming a blade.  “I’ll fight alone this time,” he says, and he feels the pang of Maka’s hurt in his chest.  Bracing himself in front of her, he reminds himself that he could save the girl a thousand times, but he’s still no prince.  
  
—  
  
He can’t gauge her responses like he’s sure she can gauge his; Maka is kind to him, but Maka is kind to _everyone_ , and besides her trust, there’s nothing to prove he’s won her favor.  Leaning on the wall at a party, arms close, whispering, she reaches out to twine her little finger with his and he feels his heart break.  It could mean something, if he were someone else, but he isn’t, and she isn’t, and they aren’t.  Laugh tight, he dips his head against her shoulder, soldiers through the ache in his neck to feel the familiar rush of her pulse, and reminds himself that he’s fine with this.  He’s fine.  
  
—  
  
He can’t help but feel he’s corrupting her, somehow; he has this black blood in his veins and this offbeat rhythm in his heart and it hurts him to know that it might be hurting her.  He thought he’d passed this years ago, but now, nearly an adult, he wakes up shock-still and covered in sweat, haunted by nightmares of Maka, pupils blown wide, unadulterated madness in the twitch of her fingers.  There’s a desperate ache in the back of his throat, and he doesn't _want_ this.  He doesn't want to ruin her.  
  
Maka seems to make it her personal mission to remind him that she can’t be ruined; squashed together on their too-small couch in their pajamas, she eats fried rice out of the take out box and makes fun of the low-budget action movie they’d put on.  Her bangs fall into her face when she laughs, and when Soul reaches toward her to brush them away, she leans her face, grinning, into his palm.  
  
“Hey, Soul,” she breathes; there’s a giddy, airy quality to her voice, and he’s reminded of how much he loves her, “truth or dare?”  
  
Soul tilts his head to the side, smile small.  “If I choose dare,” he asks, with a suspicious lilt, “am I going to have to get up from the couch?”  Once, Maka used a dare to get him to switch her laundry for her in the middle of a Harry Potter movie marathon, and he’s been jaded ever since.  
  
Maka hums.  “No,” she responds, thoughtful.  
  
He narrows his eyes at her, even more suspicious.  “Okay,” he says anyway, “Dare.”  
  
She grins wider and pinches her fingers near his face like a crab.  “You have to hold your nose and talk like Squidward for the next five minutes,” she states proudly.  
  
Soul groans and leans his head against the back of the couch.  “I _have_ to?” he asks, glancing at her from the corner of his eye, and tries to keep from smiling, “Don’t you mean you dare me to?”  
  
She rolls her eyes at him.  “So you’re not going to hold your nose and talk like Squidward?”  
  
He doesn’t have that competitive streak that she has, but he complies, sighing loudly before reaching up to pinch his nose.  
  
“Hey, Maka,” he starts, completely straight-faced in spite of his voice, and watches involuntary giggles bubble out of her, face crumpling into laugh lines, “Truth or dare?”  
  
Maka’s losing it, hands pressed to her mouth; he can’t help the smile that pulls at his lip as she shifts closer to him.  “Truth,” she snorts; while he thinks of a question, he reaches for the remote to pause the movie.  
  
He keeps one hand on his nose and uses the other to sneak around and tickle her ribs.  “Do you loooove me?” he teases in a long, drawn out voice, and he’s not even listening for her response when she cackles, grabs his wrist, and half shrieks, “Yes!”  
  
There’s a pause.  Maka’s face is frozen mid-laugh, but it’s more like she’s too shocked to change her expression than that she’s trying to smile, and Soul can’t even imagine what his face looks like.  His hand drops, limp, from her side to the couch, and Maka catches it with lightning reflexes, pressing it softly to her side.  
  
She swallows, and he traces the movement with his eyes.  “You… know that, right, Soul?” she asks; she’s so quiet he can hardly hear her, and he leans toward her slightly, automatic.  
  
“I…” he tries, and realizes with horror that his hand is still pinching his nose.  Desperately, he scrambles to remove it from his face and place it over hers.  They blink at each other, slow.  “Maka,” he whispers, “I —”  
  
She puts her hand on his face; instinctively, he leans into it.  “I know,” she promises, and there are definitely not tears in his eyes.  
  
It’s only a moment before she pulls away, and Soul finds himself reaching back for her, leaning into her with something like desperation.  _Don’t go_ , he wants to tell her; but then her body shifts forward, arms wrapping tight around his waist, head tucking neatly under his chin, and he feels the warm glow of her soul close to his.  
  
Soul definitely doesn't cry.  They finish the movie.  
  
—  
  
It’s a week later when he kisses her for the first time.  They’ve just returned from a run; Soul sits on the floor, covered in sweat and rubbing his achey calves, and Maka laughs at something he says, and he smiles, leans close, and kisses her.  
  
They don’t talk about it for a moment, and Soul takes the time to look at her: cheeks flushed, eyes bright, a little smile tugging at her lips.  There is something very inevitable in it, he thinks, feeling short of breath, like it’s been building to this; she’s known for a long time, he knows, and thinking back on it, maybe he had, too.  
  
The moment passes.  He sets his shoes by the door, leans his elbows onto his knees, and says, “Hey.”  
  
Maka leans in toward him, and he wonders if his expression is as soft and happy as hers.  “Hey,” she smiles.  
  
Soul reaches a hand out to her as invitation, and she takes it without hesitation, fingers twining familiarly like they have been for years.  He sees the touch of uncertainty he’d been worrying about in her immediate reaction, the way her heart beats too fast, toes tapping, head ducking nervously so that her hair falls in her face; but he sees, too, the light in her eyes, feels the press of her shoulder to his, the closeness of her soul.  Eyes closed, he focuses on that feeling, pushes, tentatively, at her soul from his own.  
  
It is the first time he can think of where she immediately lets him in, and he allows himself a second to take stock of her feeling, the deep nervousness and deep hope thrumming through her like a heartbeat, the same rhythm as his.  They stay like that for a while, sitting close on the floor, hand in hand and soul in soul.  He leans his head on top of hers and takes a deep breath.  “Okay,” he says, chest tight, smile warm, and she leans close to him, too, because she loves him, too, “This is okay.”

—  
  
They grow together, the two of them: kids, then teens, then adults.  He watches her read her way through the library and fight her way, tooth and nail, into awards, recognition, fame.  Her grip is tight around his wrist, and he’s dragged into it, too; Soul feels the instinctive shrink away from the attention, but he does his best to stand tall, stand with Maka, and bare the glory like badges on his chest.  
  
Next to her, the anxious thrum never goes away, and he knows he lacks her endless drive: she has bigger plans than him, bigger ambitions, bigger dreams.  But he’s half of those dreams, now, half of _her_ dreams, and he’s content to spend his life at her side, following her, supporting her, and loving her.  She has complete confidence in her path, her ideals, and he has blind faith in her; he trails after her, puts his footsteps in hers, and does his best to keep up.  
  
Neither of them are perfect: she’s difficult, stubborn, a hypocrite, pushes him too hard and herself harder, and she drives him crazy with her presence, her strange rules, the compromises they come to.  She’s reckless and brilliant, confident and well-loved, and he’s always been worried that she’ll leave him in the dust — but they’re older now, and he’s seen her cry, knows she can’t sing, has tasted her poor attempts at baking, reading recipes to her aloud, laughing, leaning on their kitchen counter.  She scares him when she’s too honest and terrifies him when she clams up, and she never grew out of that ticklish spot under her ribs, and she’s famously bad at apologies.  But she’s beautiful.  
  
Long legs are hanging off the arm of their couch when he comes home from the store; Soul toes off his shoes and hangs up his keys, reluctantly puts the ice cream in the freezer before coming to check on her.  
  
She’s asleep.  Her hands lay limp near her ears, shirt riding up her stomach, novel open on the bottom half of her face; he shakes his head, smiling, and spends a minute leaning against the back of the couch, watching her fingers twitch and listening to her soft breaths.  
  
Carefully, he plucks the book from her face, resisting the urge to dog-ear it because he knows she’d hate that.  Slipping an envelope from the coffee table between the pages to keep her place, he sets the novel down, whisper quiet, and drapes his jacket over her bare legs, the mild chill of autumn creeping through their open windows.  Maka stirs at the slight pressure, makes a little noise and curls her fingers, and Soul stops to watch her, bewitched.  
  
Silently, and with practiced ease, Soul drops to his knees in front of her and takes her hand in his.  It’s familiar, by now, slightly cool and slightly sweaty, callouses all over it from years of strife and study; her hands aren't small, but they look small in his, now.  Watching her gentle breaths, hair fanned out around her like a halo, he rubs slow circles into her knuckles.  
  
There’s nothing special about the moment, not really, but something holds him in place like lead in his core.  He hums.  
  
In the afternoon light, he feels his soul reach for her before his body does.  “Partners,” he breathes, brushing his lips against the palm of her hand, and the word no longer tastes strange in his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr at myrkks.tumblr.com !


End file.
